


Federation Day (and other stories)

by kianspo



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Established Relationship, Ficlet Collection, First Time, Fluff, Holidays, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28343994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianspo/pseuds/kianspo
Summary: A collection of ficlets I wrote once upon a time as holiday gifts for friends. Mostly fluff or humor, most of them Kirk/Spock, with some Pike/Spock in the mix.
Relationships: Christopher Pike/Spock, James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 20
Kudos: 143





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> These are a bit of ancient history that I'd forgotten I had. The year was 2010, Livejournal was alive, and I tried to do something about my writer's block, so I wrote a bunch of fluffy holiday-themed (mostly) ficlets for fandom friends. I have recently unearthed them by accident and thought, why not. If they can make you at least smile at the end of the (hopefully) one-of-a-kind 2020, then they're worth reposting. Happy holidays!

Table of contents:

1\. **Federation Day** \- K/S , established relationship, T, summary: _When Spock was 9, his relationship with holidays was a source of puzzlement. His relationship with his father even more so. 24 years later, he is still struggling with translation, but he has someone to help him now._

2\. **The Mastery of Improvisation** \- K/S, first time, R, summary: _Spock hates Kirk's tendency to disrupt his carefully laid out plans, especially when they go undercover, but in the end, he doesn't have a lot to complain about._

3\. **Now, You Are** \- K/S, first time, T, confessions, summary: _Spock’s expression remains unchanged, and Jim groans. “Oh my God, just_ who _have you fallen in love with?”_

4\. **Desert Walk** \- Pike/Spock, established, E, summary: _It's Christmas break. Chris and Spock don't exactly celebrate, but they are together._

5\. **Eggnog** \- K/S, established, G, extreme schmoop, summary: _Kirk rents a cottage for the bridge crew for Christmas. Spock is late._

6\. **Caught in the Snow** \- Pike/Spock, established, T, summary: _Pike and Spock spend their vacation in a small cabin with a cozy fireplace and loads of snow._

7\. **One-Two-Three** \- K/S, first time/pre-slash, G, summary: _Kirk is supposed to learn how to dance. Spock shares tips._


	2. Federation Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was 9, Spock puzzled over his relationship with holidays, and even more so - with his father. 24 years later, he's still struggling with translation, but he has someone to help him now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: _Star Trek (tos or reboot), K/S (or gen with whoever else is ok), the holiday is the prompt: I want a 'future' holiday and its traditions. Whether it's some amalgamation of Christmas/Hanukah/Winter Solstice/New Years/Kwanza that happened when Earth became unified, or something like 'First Contact Day'- I just want to read about a new to me holiday._  
>  For [aprilleigh24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilleigh/)♥

\--

Spock had never seen much sense in holidays. In his utterly superior, nine-year-old view, they were either atavisms kept for purely sentimental (illogical) reasons, excuses for poor memory, or indulgencies at their purest. Sarek, who was primarily responsible for Spock’s opinions on the subject, still made a few exceptions that he had never tried to explain to his son. Spock caught up soon enough and stopped asking, drawing his own conclusions.

Certainly, celebrating the day of one’s birth, particularly by killing some plants prematurely to create a bouquet, was in no way logical, but watching his mother smile at Sarek as he presented her with a flowery arrangement and some ‘well wishes’ made Spock believe that there were moments when being unreasonable was not quite so reprehensible. In addition, his mother definitely had her ways of making his father’s life difficult, ways that Spock was yet too young to fully comprehend. However, being as sensitive as any child to the invisible balance of power in the household, Spock realized early on that Amanda definitely had more than a few ‘aces up her sleeve,’ so to speak. Perhaps his father’s ‘indulging’ habit was not quite as illogical as it would initially appear.

For the most part, however, holidays still seemed more of a tiresome nuisance to Spock – especially the officially imposed ones, such as Federation Day. It was not so bad when he was on Vulcan – the date was not singled out in any way other than the planet’s officials delivering a few appropriate statements. Everywhere else, however, it was quite another story, with pompous speeches followed by tedious receptions, and even balls, particularly on Earth and Andoria. It was usually a time of political ‘saber rattling,’ and, while Spock found the concept somewhat fascinating, he was not appreciative of the way it distracted him from his scientific studies. And, when accompanying his father on one of his diplomatic voyages, such a distraction was inevitable and to be expected.

Spock suppressed a sigh, sitting at the back of the reception hall, keeping his back straight and his eyes trained on the podium as if the ambassadors’ speeches were a most fascinating phenomenon to behold. He sourly regretted not being allowed to take a civilian transport on his return trip back from Rigel, where Spock had spent his summer in a martial arts training camp. But Amanda was not to be moved on the subject. She had been against the idea of Spock going in the first place, and did not want to hear any plan that involved him traveling back alone. This was how Spock came to be on a diplomatic transport carrying his father and an assortment of politicians from all over the Federation. It was at moments like this that Spock mourned the fact that he was a child and thus had no say in the matter.

The ambassadors kept droning on at the front of the hall, and Spock gave in to the urge to shift in his seat. He had always disliked formal Vulcan robes with a passion. They were heavy, itchy, and uncomfortable, originally designed for travelers to prevent them from acquiring hypothermia in the unforgiving cold of the night desert. They also used to serve as an excellent way to conceal weapons, back when Vulcan clans fought one another. At present, Spock despised the necessity to wear them to formal occasions, and, while being emotional about it was definitely illogical, he justified his position with the notion that the robes themselves were illogical, no longer serving their original purposes and now being nothing more than a tribute to tradition. Spock found little logic in respecting traditions that had ceased to make sense, but, oddly enough, no one asked for his opinion.

At the moment, he wanted nothing better than to go back to his quarters. He met a Terran girl earlier today, one Kate Mulligan. She was one year and four months older than him, and she laughed unkindly at his haircut and clothes. However, she also introduced Spock to something called _Might and Magic 3010_ , uploading it to his PADD while their fathers were conversing. Video games were highly illogical, which was why Spock had never played one, but the girl’s disparaging remarks of the _‘I’ve never met anyone so boring’_ variety made him itch to try his hand at a holographic swordfight.

Unfortunately, his father had not dismissed him yet.

Spock shifted in his seat again, earning a disapproving glance from Sopak. His father’s new aide was sitting beside Spock, diligently recording the diplomats’ speeches onto his PADD. Spock’s eyes skimmed over the text before flickering briefly up to Sopak’s face. The young Vulcan was not very good at hiding the fact that he considered the task of ‘babysitting’ the ambassador’s son beneath him, with all his skills and training.

Spock pursed his lips, anger and humiliation flaring up in him against his will. It wasn’t as if he wanted to be here, much less in Sopak’s company.

“My father will expect more than that, you know,” Spock said quietly, nodding at Sopak’s PADD and trying not to sound vindictive.

The young diplomat turns to Spock with an expression of mild incredulity at being addressed. “I beg your pardon?”

“There is no point in simply recording the words,” Spock explained. “My father will ask for your analysis.”

Sopak frowned slightly. “But they are merely festive speeches. The real negotiations will start tomorrow. This is but a courtesy.”

Spock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “You have not been listening,” he told Sopak superiorly. Sarek would not be pleased with his behavior, and Amanda even less so, but Spock never had much patience for slow minds, and the fact that Sopak treated him as a burden was infuriating. “The Tellarite Ambassador was more insulting towards Vulcans than usual.”

“Tellarites are always insulting. It is their way.”

“Yes, but he used secondary strong expletives while referring to Vulcans, while only invoking first-level invectives for humans and being _polite_ toward the Andorians. He also used the words ‘value’ and ‘worth’ no less than six times.”

Sopak blinked. “And?”

Spock stared at him. “The new transit station between Tellar and Betazed? The ambassador is planning on requesting financial support from Vulcan. He would agree to ‘cut a share’ for humans, but he will insist upon one that excludes the Andorians.”

Sopak blinked again. “But—”

“The Andorian Ambassador,” Spock continued, “was making numerous references to the Battle of Procyon. He spoke of recent incidents at the Klingon border and of how we need a stronger Federation.”

“The Andorians take pride in their military accomplishments—”

“The ambassador’s brother is one of the biggest military contractors in the sector,” Spock said impatiently. “He is obviously looking for new commissions.”

Sopak stared at him intently for a moment. “How would you come to be in possession of this information? Regarding the ambassador’s brother, I mean?”

“I read the news feeds,” Spock replied. “They have the same familial name. It was not difficult to check.”

“But why would you do that?”

“Because he lives with me,” came a voice from behind them.

Spock whirled around in his seat to see Sarek sitting in the chair behind him, peering at him with mild disapproval. Spock bowed his head. Failure to notice that the last row was no longer unoccupied did not bode well for him at all.

“Ambassador.” Sopak greeted his superior respectfully. “Your son was merely—”

“Showing off,” Sarek finished smoothly. “It is a most unbecoming habit, but unfortunately, my attempts to teach him the value of humility do not seem to take.”

Spock could feel the traitorous blush coloring his face. To be chastised publicly like this was yet another lesson he failed to learn, he knew, because a true Vulcan would not feel embarrassment or shame, while Spock’s cheeks were burning with both.

“Since you consider yourself so knowledgeable, Spock” – Sarek addressed him again, voice stern – “would you enlighten me as to the Terran Ambassador’s speech?”

Spock swallowed. “His speech consisted mostly of empty greetings and compliments toward the Deltan representative. Perhaps he will be seeking reconciliation after the scandal with Parliamentarian Montgomery.”

“Or perhaps he is simply affected by her physical attributes and is seeking companionship for the remainder of this voyage,” Sarek opined pointedly, glancing at the Deltan in question. “This is your weakness, Spock. You overanalyze and fail to take into account human nature.”

“Yes, father.”

Sarek stared at him for a minute, contemplating, before emitting the tiniest of sighs. “I suppose you wish to be dismissed from this venue?”

Spock’s gaze snapped up, driven by hope, before he could check it. “Yes.”

Sarek nodded somberly. “You may retire. But first I wish you to apologize to Sopak for speaking out of turn.”

Spock turned to Sopak immediately, controlling his ever-rising sense of humiliation. “Mr. Sopak, I apologize for my behavior. It was not my place to speak out.”

If Spock were older or less afraid to seek out emotions in others instead of trying desperately to rein in his own, he would have noticed that Sopak’s expression was undeniably colored by one, and it was not the sense of satisfaction Spock would have expected. If Amanda witnessed the scene, she would have identified Sopak’s expression instantly as one of sympathy and even shared embarrassment. But Amanda was not there, and Spock was ill-equipped to see what was staring him in the face.

“There is no offense where none was intended,” Sopak responded quietly, the ritual phrase sliding uneasily from his lips.

Sarek nodded stiffly again. “You may go, Spock. I would advise contemplating your behavior.”

“Yes, father.” Spock stood up, bowed respectfully to Sarek and Sopak and walked out of the reception hall with as much dignity as he could muster while his feet begged him to break into a run.

Had it occur to Spock to linger just outside the doors for a moment, he would have heard Sopak saying, “Your son is highly intelligent, Ambassador. For his age, it is – remarkable.”

“Intelligence without control is worthless,” Sarek replied. “Spock’s mind is a product of his genetics. It is illogical to take pride in that.”

“Perhaps,” Sopak agreed hesitantly. “I believe that there is credence, however, to his observation regarding the Terran Ambassador.”

“There is,” Sarek admitted at once. “As is to his other deductions. Spock has certain... talent, as my wife would put it, to analyze speech patterns and correlate them with known facts.”

“Yet you told him he was incorrect.”

“I told him he was over-confident. It is dangerous for a professional.”

“Ambassador... your son is nine years old.”

“You are beginning to sound like the Lady Amanda, Mr. Sopak. Age is no excuse for mistakes. And the way I choose to raise my son is none of your concern.”

“No, Ambassador. I apologize for my presumption.”

Of course, as Spock did not have a habit of eavesdropping and possessed an acquired instinct not to question or jeopardize any moment of freedom he was granted, he did not overhear the conversation, and was walking back to his quarters with his shoulders slumped and head bowed. He berated himself silently for failing to remember that it was illogical to try and please his father. As for Sopak, Spock felt that the reprimand was deserved. Pointing out errors to an adult – and a trained professional – was presumptuous and discourteous. Being correct did not enter into that equation.

The corridors of the ship were crowded with excited passengers in their most formal clothes, and it took all of Spock’s concentration not to bump into a tall lady wearing an evening gown who would suddenly stop in her tracks to send out a flirtatious remark to someone, or a bulky figure of an elderly Denobulan who drifted from person to person, smiling magnanimously and propositioning everyone in direct vicinity. Spock ducked his head, mutely cursing his stupid long robes, and quickened his pace.

The festivities would soon continue, he knew, with a banquet and possibly dancing and, given that there were so many humans onboard, a lightshow. Spock didn’t feel like sticking around for any of those, particularly since his father had unexpectedly decided to dismiss him. That was completely uncharacteristic of Sarek, but Spock decided, for once, to not ‘look the gift horse in the mouth,’ as his mother so often told him.

He hauled himself back up to his quarters, finally freeing his PADD from the confines of his father’s case – Sarek did not need to know that Spock had picked its code quite a while ago – and happily diving into a completely illogical fantasy world.

Fascinating as the game turned out to be, however, Spock soon found himself distracted, and eventually switched the PADD off. His thoughts kept wandering back to Sarek’s reprimand, and, trying hard as he might, Spock could not shake off the utterly emotional feeling of injustice that lingered, despite his better efforts to convince himself that he was behaving disgracefully.

Giving up at last on trying to resolve his dilemma, Spock requested an astrophysics problem from the ship’s computer, with a few more to follow. He spent the remainder of the evening working on them, oblivious to the noises of the ship-wide party booming outside the cabin.

When Sarek walked in five hours later, he found his son asleep against the computer terminal, the word ‘Correct’ blinking in human-friendly green across the screen. If the Lady Amanda had been present, she alone would have been able perhaps to read the emotion flickering in her husband’s dark eyes as he gazed down at the boy. But Amanda was not here, and Sarek stood motionless for a moment, experiencing a most unusual feeling that he could not name.

The mentor in him insisted he wake Spock up, tell him off for not having consumed any nourishment and retire before he could present such a display. Spock was old enough to be able to take care of himself, and it constantly eluded Sarek as to why his son, who was so adept in almost any other skill he was taught, could not master so simple a task. A familiar flare of irritation blooming in Sarek’s chest – to be dealt with later – he knew that he should leave Spock where he was so that the soreness of his muscles and the general sensation of weakness would teach him a lesson come morning.

But he had spent a moment too long staring at Spock’s awkwardly bent body – so small, compared to his peers. Sarek had stood there long enough to allow the part of him that was a father to surface – something he did not normally permit to happen, because spoiling one’s child meant doing said child a disservice, and Sarek was intent on not adding to his son’s natural disadvantages; Spock had one too many as it was.

The day behind him had been long and tiresome, though, and Sarek reasoned, quite logically, that they had earned this one small indulgence. Just once, he told himself, reaching to deactivate the terminal, careful not to wake Spock. Gently, Sarek picked the boy up, Spock’s head lolling onto his shoulder trustingly – the way it used to when he was not a year old and unaware that his father enjoyed holding him as much as his mother did.

Quietly, Sarek deposited Spock on the bed, taking off his shoes and throwing a blanket over him. He spent a moment longer, watching his son’s peaceful face, before finally retiring to his own room.

He still felt the need to point out Spock’s errors to him, but it could wait until morning. Just this once, it could wait.

\--

**24 years later**

The sound of the comm is unnaturally loud in the darkness of the cabin. Jim Kirk stirs with a grunt and extricates himself from the cocoon of sheets, blinking blearily as he tries to figure out what has woken him. The persistent whistle sounds again, and Jim groans, lifting himself half-upright and slumping against the headboard.

“Computer, activate intercom, audio only. Yes?”

_“Captain,”_ Uhura’s chirpy voice streams down the line. _“I’m sorry to bother you, but—”_

“Uhura, for the love of my sanity, did I or did I not tell you I was not to be disturbed for the next 24 hours unless we crash landed in a black hole?”

_“You did, and I apologized, but we have an incoming communication, and I think you’d want to take it.”_

“Really,” Jim drawls skeptically. “Who’s it from?”

_“Ambassador Sarek.”_

Automatically, Jim glances at his bedmate, who chooses this moment to emerge from the elaborate construction of covers he has created.

“Why does he want to talk to me?” Jim asks, meeting a very alert gaze.

_“Actually, he wants to talk to Spock.”_

Jim lifts his eyebrows, grinning down at Spock, but keeping his voice even. “Why are you calling me, then?”

They can hear Uhura bristle impatiently. _“I had a – hunch – that you might know where he is.”_

“At three o’clock in the morning? Why, Lieutenant, I didn’t realize you were such a fan of the ship’s rumor mill,” Jim teases.

_“Captain—”_ She pauses, clearly torn between exasperation and the necessity to maintain decorum. _“If you_ happen _to see him, would you be so kind as to inform him that—”_

“It is all right, Nyota,” Spock says, swinging his legs onto the floor and straightening up. “I will take the call here, if you would just give me a moment.”

_“Sure thing,”_ she replies sweetly. _“You can pick up in one minute.”_

“Acknowledged.”

_“Uhura out.”_

“Spoilsport,” Jim tells him, watching as Spock fastens his pants while looking for his shirt.

Spock gives him an eyebrow. “You did not seriously believe that she was unaware.”

“Not after this was the first place she’d look, no.” Jim grins smugly and shrugs. “I like messing with her. Especially if it’s about you.”

Spock fixes him with a reproachful look. “You are behaving poorly, Jim.”

“Well, being nice has no perks.” Jim stretches languidly, smirking as he catches Spock’s gaze. “Hey, c’mere a moment.”

“Jim,” Spock protests, but steps closer just the same.

Jim leans up just enough to press against Spock, pulling him down into a short kiss. “Everything okay?”

“Indeed,” Spock replies, carding his fingers through Jim’s hair gently. “My father probably wishes to convey holiday greetings. It is an – odd – tradition that he keeps.”

“Oh,” Jim says, bewildered. No one he knows actually _celebrates_ Federation Day as a family holiday. “Okay.”

He watches as Spock settles behind Jim’s desk, and wow, does he look at home there. Jim grins as he hears Spock and Sarek exchange what for any other family would be perfectly mundane pleasantries – except, Vulcans don’t do those. Jim wonders vaguely what this is about. From what little information Spock let slip about his father over the years, Sarek wouldn’t be winning any ‘Dad of the Year’ awards any time soon, not by Earth standards.

The thing is, though, Spock turned out okay. More than okay, actually, Jim thinks fondly. So if everyone really is screwed up by their parents, then, all things considered, Spock seems to have gotten away with the right end of the stick. Even if he isn’t the most well-adjusted person in the universe.

Jim doesn’t even try to pretend he isn’t listening in. Spock seems wary but somehow softer round the edges than he usually is, and Jim wants to get to the bottom of this, but he’s distracted when Sarek says, _“Please extend my greetings to James,”_ and signs off.

Jim sits up straighter and stares. “You told him. I thought we said—”

Spock meets his eyes, looking equally shaken. “No, Jim. I never even mentioned…” He trails off, disgruntled.

“Huh,” Jim breathes. “Guess your father knows you better than you thought, then.”

Spock nods slowly. “It would certainly appear that way.”

Jim watches him carefully. “Well. He didn’t sound disapproving. That’s good, right?”

Spock must feel tired enough – or safe enough – to actually allow his face an openly confused expression. “I do not understand this,” he confesses, sounding both petulant and helpless. “I do not understand _him_.”

Jim suddenly laughs. “I do,” he says. “He loves you.”

Spock blinks. “That is—”

“Next to impossible, I know.” Jim rolls his eyes. “It’s insanity, and hardship, and torture, yet somehow we persist – crazy people.”

Spock glances sharply at him. “We?”

Jim blushes, but grins. “You just couldn’t _not_ catch that one, could you?” He sighs. “We, Spock. As if you didn’t know.” Spock opens his mouth, and Jim adds quickly, “On second thought, don’t answer that.”

Spock purses his lips. “As you wish.”

Jim shakes his head. “Come back to bed, would you? You can puzzle over this some more in the morning.”

But when Spock does settle back beside him, Jim pulls him closer and whispers, “It’s time you learned, Spock.”

The way Spock relaxes against him, trusting and contented, tells Jim that maybe, just maybe, he finally did.

\--


	3. The Mastery of Improvisation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock hates Kirk's tendency to disrupt his carefully laid out plans, especially when they go undercover, but in the end, he doesn't have a lot to complain about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for verizonhorizon's prompt: _Kirk/Spock (reboot or tos) Undercover mission!_

\--

Spock does not like to improvise. He likes plans – definite, thoroughly calculated plans, detailed enough to foresee every possible circumstance. His mind is capable of combining variables at breathtaking speed, allowing him to switch gears fast enough to make some people believe he’s acting on instinct.

James Kirk is all about improvisation, and sometimes Spock really hates that about the man. He is long past denying the emotionalism of his reaction. That would be simply illogical. Kirk has a highly pronounced habit of listening to Spock’s plans, approving them, authorizing actions based on them, and then using the first convenient opportunity to derail them completely. It has happened so many times that Spock has given up pretending that the actions were anything but infuriating a long time ago.

That doesn’t mean he enjoys it any better.

His search has proved completely fruitless; it has been two hours, and this liner is an exceptionally large ship. Suppressing a resigned sigh, Spock stops a passing steward. “Excuse me. Have you seen my valet, by any chance?”

It’s an indication of how well the role of an extremely wealthy, illegitimate son of a Romulan senator fits Spock that the man pulls himself into a ringing string of eagerness the moment Spock’s eyes land on him.

“A young human, yellow hair, pale eyes, very attractive, wears a blue sash, _kiriy_?”

Spock mentally sighs. “Please tell me that was not _all_ he was wearing when you saw him?”

The steward’s face contorts in an oily smile. “No, _kiriy_. He was decent.”

“That would be a first,” Spock mutters, only half in character. He reaches into his pocket and produces a credit chip, showing it to the steward.

The man’s eyes glint, and he licks his lips. “Second technical deck, _kiriy_. He was probably snooping around the kitchens.”

The schematics of the ship unfold in Spock’s mind in a flash, and he knows that, at this point, coming up with logical arguments against strangling his captain would be incredibly hard.

“Your assistance is appreciated,” he says, and lets go of the chip, moving on as the steward dives forward to catch it.

“Most generous, _kiriy_! If I may be so bold...”

Spock looks back with what he’s certain is very poorly concealed impatience. “Yes?”

The steward looks up from where he’s bent in a respectful bow, clearly ingratiating. “A man of your station should not trouble himself with undisciplined servants, _kiriy_. Here on this ship, we have... facilities. We could – make him see sense for you.”

Spock is having a hard time suppressing a smirk. “Tempting as the offer is – and I assure you, it is – I must decline. I will deal with him myself.”

The steward nods a little too deeply. “Yes, _kiriy_. Apologies for my presumption.”

Spock nods curtly and proceeds on his way, reflecting sourly that Kirk should thank his lucky stars, as humans would put it, that Spock is devoid of a sadistic streak. Some people just ask for it.

It’s harder for Spock than he imagines it has been for Kirk to sneak down into the off-limits zone, but he manages. ‘Snooping around the kitchens’ gave Spock a good idea of what Kirk is really after. His deduction proves correct when he discovers Kirk hunched in a hollow between two bulkheads, trying to pick the code of a weapons locker.

Spock stares for a moment, surprised, for the major part, at his own lack of surprise, before reaching out and deactivating the alarm sensor.

Kirk glances up momentarily and nods. “Nice catch. I haven’t seen that one.”

Spock suppresses a sigh. “What defect in your brain makes it imperative for you to make our existence and the fulfillment of our mission as difficult as possible?”

Kirk smirks without looking up. “I’m really getting to you, aren’t I?” He punches in another series of commands, frowning as the display blinks stubbornly in green. “Maybe I just like messing with your head, Spock.”

“Try altering the transitory derivative,” Spock suggests mildly. “And ‘maybe,’ Captain?”

Kirk snorts. “You know me too well.”

Spock stiffens suddenly. “Someone is approaching.”

“I’m almost there.”

“There is no time.”

“I said I’m almost—oogh!”

Spock yanks Kirk to his feet and slams him into the wall, twisting his arm behind his back none too gently and making sure Kirk’s body is blocking the locker door from view.

“Most disgraceful behavior,” Spock says loudly, pressing Kirk to the wall harder. “Making me waste my time looking for you when I require your services—”

“I was only gone a moment,” Kirk replies, more petulance in his voice than plea. “Please, Master, I only—”

Spock slides his free hand between Kirk’s shoulder blades and presses two specific spots hard and precise. Kirk wails, throwing his head back and writhing in Spock’s hold. Spock knows it’s not playacting; the pain is genuine. He regrets it, but they need to be convincing. He twists his head sharply to look at the intruder.

It’s a young kitchen maid, standing not five feet afar, staring at them with wide, terrified eyes. Spock pulls Kirk’s arm further back abruptly, making the captain cry out, without taking his gaze off the girl.

“Something I can help you with?” he hisses as menacingly as he can.

“N-no, _kiriy_!” she refutes frantically. “I’m – I’m sorry, _kiriy_! I haven’t seen anything!”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” Spock snaps. “Get out.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice, and Spock listens to the fading panic of her hurried footsteps dying out in the distance.

“Spock,” Kirk calls in a tense, high-pitched voice. “Do you mind?”

“Hold still,” Spock orders quietly, gently releasing Kirk’s arm and using both hands to undo the damage he inflicted on Kirk’s back.

Kirk breathes heavily, gradually relaxing. “You so owe me a back rub after this,” he mutters.

Spock massages the abused muscles soothingly before tapping Kirk’s shoulder once, indicating he’s done. “When we return to the _Enterprise_ , I will be happy to,” he says, without realizing he is speaking out loud.

Kirk turns around slowly, an incredulous expression on his face. “Really?”

Spock stares at him, blood rushing to his cheeks. “I... if you wish.”

Kirk’s eyes widen slightly. He bites his lip, a strangely serious, calculating expression on his face. “Really,” he repeats evenly, taking a step forward, which brings them uncomfortably close in the cramped space. “You trust me that much.”

“Yes,” Spock replies cautiously, edging away instinctively, until his back hits the wall.

Kirk’s eyebrows arch eloquently, as he steps forward again. “What if I told you,” he says quietly, his tone tense in an unfamiliar way, “that you really, really shouldn’t?”

Spock swallows, his mouth turning uncomfortably dry. “Should we not concentrate on extricating weapons?” he asks, his voice oddly feeble to his own ears.

“All done,” Kirk replies, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Told you, I only needed another moment. Soon as we’re out of warp, we can break Daisah out and jump this boat. Mission accomplished.”

“In that case—”

“Uh-uh, not so fast. I need to know exactly how far you will trust me, Spock.” Kirk draws even closer, smiling still, which is extremely disturbing.

“Captain.” Spock sighs, aiming for nonchalance. “Are you certain that now is the time for—”

Kirk kisses him, and there is nothing tentative about it. The kiss _is_ Kirk as Spock knows him – brash, overwhelming, determined, insolent, unapologetic, and completely irresistible. This is exactly the kind of spontaneity that Spock hates about him, hates with all his heart – except, apparently, when he loves it, because he doesn’t know what he’s giving back, but he’s definitely giving something. Kirk moans softly into his mouth and presses closer, eager for whatever it is Spock seems to be offering.

“Jim, stop,” Spock breathes out, gripping Kirk’s shoulders and pushing him away.

Kirk doesn’t resist. “Do you—”

“Yes,” Spock says, knowing he is going to regret it, but it’s too late for that anyway. “Yes, but not here. Not now.”

“So you—”

“Yes, Jim. For a while.”

Kirk’s face attains a mildly thunderous expression. “And you didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell me, huh?”

Spock shoves him back impatiently, leaning down to release the hand disruptors from the holder. “You were insufferable enough as it was.”

Kirk grabs his shoulder and jerks him up, anger clear in the abruptness of his motions. “You think this is a game for me?”

“Everything is a game for you.”

“Not this. Spock, you _idiot_ – I’ve been—”

Spock holds up a hand, silencing him.

“What?” Kirk scowls.

Spock listens intently for a few seconds, then looks at Kirk calmly. “We have just dropped out of warp.”

Kirk rolls his eyes, but nods and snatches one of the disruptors out of Spock’s hand. He tucks it securely under his sash, the folds concealing the weapon completely.

“Let’s go,” Kirk orders grimly. “But this? Isn’t over.”

“No,” Spock says, resigned and hiding his own weapon. “Evidently, it isn’t.”

He follows the captain out, trying to reconcile with the fact that his life is going to be nothing _but_ spontaneous from now on.

\--


	4. Now, You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock’s expression remains unchanged, and Jim groans. “Oh my God, just _who_ have you fallen in love with?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Jaylee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaylee/)'s prompt: _Kay, I want K/S. Something schmoopy_.  
> Now that I look at it, could be read as either TOS or AOS, whichever you prefer...

\--

Spock finds him late into the ship’s evening, when Jim is beginning to think that his eyes will go permanently cross from digesting that many reports in one go. There are days when Jim wishes he was some second lieutenant on the flight deck so that he could be celebrating the end of mission with his friends by drinking copious amounts of alcohol and playing pool, instead of being under siege by aggressive paperwork.

He looks up at Spock and smiles tiredly, not caring to adjust the glasses slipping down his nose. “I’m about to throw out a white flag, Mr. Spock. Didn’t think you’d see the day, huh?”

Spock lifts an eyebrow, glancing over the still-impressive stack of PADDs awaiting Jim’s perusal. “I am confident in your strategic genius,” he says. “However, should you fail, I am certain someone with a greater talent shall succeed admirably.”

Jim grins, watching him. “Blowing your own horn, are we?”

“Certainly not. I was talking about Yeoman Rand.”

Jim snorts. Then, he groans. “She’d murder me if I don’t finish these by tomorrow.”

“Improbable, but not impossible,” Spock says, and there’s something strange about his voice that catches Jim’s attention. “If I could distract you for a brief status report, Captain?”

“Sure.” Jim nods, scanning Spock’s features intently as he makes an effort to keep a carefree smile on his face. “Go ahead.”

He doesn’t listen very carefully as Spock dissects the ship’s systems for his benefit. He concentrates on watching Spock instead, cataloguing the little changes in his appearance that most people wouldn’t even notice, like a slight shadow ghosting around his eyes or a barely-there unhappy quirk of his lips.

Jim frowns the more he stares at Spock’s would-be impassive face. It hasn’t skipped his attention that Spock has been studiously avoiding eye contact.

“Very well, Mr. Spock. I’ll look into it tomorrow,” Jim says a little distractedly when it becomes clear that Spock has finished his recitation.

Spock inclines his head. “In that case, I bid you goodnight, sir.” He turns and actually starts for the door.

“Whoa, whoa, wait.” Jim pushes himself out of the chair and onto his feet, throwing the glasses on the desk carelessly. “You didn’t think I’d just let you leave like this, did you? What’s going on, Spock?”

Spock stiffens, turning around halfway and still not looking at Jim. “I do not know what you mean.”

“The hell you don’t.” Jim steps closer, trying to look into his face. “You’re upset about something; I can tell.”

“Captain.” Spock breathes out and, for him, it’s almost a sigh. “We have talked about your tendency to attribute human emotions to me. It would be inaccurate and invalid.”

“Yes,” Jim says like he agrees. “You’re upset about something.” He takes Spock by the shoulders, careful enough not to make him lash out on reflex, but strong enough to get the point across. “Come on. I’m not letting you out of here until you spill.”

Spock seems to retreat further into himself, and Jim mentally curses. “Don’t do that.” He shakes Spock a little. “Don’t shut me out, Spock. We’re friends, aren’t we? You can talk to me.”

For the longest moment, it feels as if Spock won’t relent, won’t give up an inch of ground – that he’ll refute every advance Jim has made and just walk out.

But then, a barely perceptible tremble of emotion blurs his frame for a fraction of a second, and Jim makes himself let go of Spock, knowing he’s won.

“I am not upset, Jim,” Spock says quietly, and although the words are the same, Jim knows that it’s not a denial but a correction this time. “I am merely...” Spock trails off somewhat helplessly, and Jim bites his lip not to grin. It’s a rare sight – confident, articulate Spock fumbling for the right term. But, if not emotions themselves, then certainly their nature continues to elude him, and Jim watches a slight frown of effort form between his eyebrows.

It’s kind of endearing, but Jim has never been particularly good at seeing Spock in any kind of discomfort. Carefully, he asks, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Spock says, taking a couple of steps across the room, hands locking behind his back by habit. “I witnessed a… Lieutenant Somm made an offer of marriage to Ensign Tschido.”

“Really?” Jim feels his eyebrows arch even as he grins. “About time.”

Spock glances at him curiously. “You expected this development?”

“Well.” Jim shrugs. “He’s been crazy about her from day one. I just didn’t think he’d have the guts to actually go through with it. But it’s Christmas, so maybe he felt it was now or never.”

“Perhaps,” Spock allows, clearly contemplating. “She seemed very – pleased.”

Jim chuckles. “I bet. Damn, I’m sorry I missed it.” He shakes his head, grinning, before remembering what set off the conversation in the first place. “So what about it made you so—” He makes a vague gesture with his hand, not quite knowing how to peg Spock’s emotional state.

“It is illogical,” Spock mutters and looks away. Jim struggles to suppress his incredulity, because, in three and a half years, he has rarely seen Spock this shifty. “I am gratified for the both of them. They seem to be – well-suited for each other. However—” Spock pauses. “Seeing them made me consider my own state of being, and I found it – lacking.”

Jim takes a moment to absorb this. When it hits him, he blinks.

“Let me get this straight,” he starts slowly. “You saw two people in love and it made you realize you were – lonely?”

Spock hesitates for a second; then he nods. “It is – selfish. I understand that.”

“But why now?” Jim persists. “I mean, in our line of work, you’re bound to see a little PDA every now and then when people are desperate or scared for each other. But it never bothered you before.”

Spock looks like he might have grimaced if he hadn’t been so well bred. “It does not ‘bother’ me, exactly. And I – I do not know, Jim. Perhaps it is due to the fact, that on previous occasions, I had been preoccupied with the immediate nature of the situations in question.” He looks down at the frustratingly boring carpet and adds, more softly, “Or perhaps it is because I myself had not been in love at the time.”

“ _What?_ ” Jim gapes at him. Hearing Spock admit to feeling something so blatantly emotional is rare but not unprecedented. But – _love?_ Since when is Spock in love?

Spock glances up at him. “You are surprised. You believed me to be incapable of that emotion.”

“No!” Jim hastens to refute. “Not at all, I just – I didn’t expect you to admit it.”

Spock lifts an eyebrow. “You insisted that I share with you.”

“Yeah, no, absolutely,” Jim babbles. “I’m happy you could tell me, and I’m happy for you, really. Being in love is fantastic.”

Spock purses his lips. “That has not been my experience. It has been distracting, and, at times, frustrating. I am extremely uncomfortable knowing that this one person holds so much power over my wellbeing. It is… disconcerting.”

“Tell me about it,” Jim mutters, aiming for sympathetic but ending up almost vengeful instead.

He doesn’t want Spock to suffer from _unrequited love_ , of all things, but a small and rather nasty part of him can’t help but think that payback is a bitch. It’s not very nice or in any way fair – far from it – but, given that it’s Spock’s fleeting expressions that have been largely responsible for all of Jim’s ups and downs for about three years now, Jim can’t blame himself for feeling a little vindicated.

It distracts him from having to ask the impending question that is bound to feed his jealousy from now till probably ever.

Which, of course, he asks anyway. “Who is she?”

Spock glances over at him, head tilted back slightly in inquiry.

“Your mystery woman?” Jim clarifies.

Spock blinks. “Why do you assume this person is a woman?”

Jim makes himself shut his mouth in a moment or two. “Um, right. No reason. So… who is he?”

Spock’s expression remains unchanged, and Jim groans. “Oh my God, just _who_ have you fallen in love with?”

Spock averts his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “It is of no importance.”

“Oh, come on, Spock. You can’t tell me something like that and leave it there.”

Spock gives him a thoughtful, assessing look. “Why do you wish to know, Jim? Does it make a difference?”

“No! I’m not judging or anything.”

“Then why—”

“Dammit, Spock, you’re my best friend. One of my best friends,” Jim amends in response to Spock’s eyebrow. “The point is, someone managed to steal your heart right under my nose, and I didn’t notice anything! I want to know who’s so damn lucky.”

Spock glances at him somewhat incredulously. “You are attempting flattery – on _me?_ ”

Jim blushes. “I wasn’t flattering you – not that you’d believe me,” he mutters under his breath. “Look, fine, you caught me. I’m dying to know.”

Spock continues to appear unimpressed.

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Jim needles. “If you can’t tell me who it is, at least tell me _about_ them. I want to know what made you fall so hard.”

Spock seems to consider that for a moment, before nodding pensively. “Very well.”

Jim waits with bated breath, telling himself he can take it. Whoever it is, Jim promises not to hate them. _Too much._

“He is incredibly intelligent,” Spock says in a calm, matter-of-fact tone, thus disposing of any uncertainty on the gender issue. “But in a different manner from everyone else. His mind is – amazing. I have never encountered such a great propensity for embracing new concepts, even when they contradict everything he knows. As such, he is irresistibly attractive to me.”

Jim swallows awkwardly, his throat painfully dry. It’s not like he thought Spock would fall for some dummy. Still – who the hell is that closet genius?

“He is recklessly courageous,” Spock continues. “Oftentimes, I wish he were less brave. He would have been subject to less danger, were that the case. But he cannot change, and I admire that about him. He knows fear, but he has not once succumbed to it or allowed it to dictate his actions.”

Spock’s voice is thick with emotion, and Jim can do nothing but stare at him helplessly, wishing for the impossible.

“He has no doubts in his own abilities, and he is physically incapable of accepting defeat. On Gamnus, I survived my captivity, reminding myself that he would not give up. Despite logic and common sense, he will not allow the possibility of losing. It is incorrect and impossible, but I find it compelling beyond what I can describe. I live by logic, but if ever I were to rely on faith, it would be in him.” Spock pauses, swallowing. “And I cannot regret that. He has not failed me once.”

“Spock,” Jim whispers hoarsely. “Spock, what are you saying?”

“I know,” Spock speaks stubbornly over him, “that he will not judge me for what I feel. Even if I am one of the many. Even if I only follow a legion of those who went before me, unable to resist his pull. It does not please me to admit that I am no stronger than a certain young lieutenant he had transferred to another ship because she was incapable of controlling her emotions.”

“Spock—”

“But he need not worry. Nothing has to change. Should he wish for it, I will speak of this no more. I will never remind him by word or gesture of—”

“Shut up,” Jim pushes out forcefully. “Oh my God, shut _the fuck_ up.”

Spock obeys him like he lives for it, eyes trained on Jim, sad and so damn expressive.

It takes Jim a moment to take control of his senses, because he’s stunned and humbled so profoundly and deeply that he isn’t even certain if he can work past it. He only knows that he has to.

He steps closer to Spock, who watches him silently, already certain of the verdict, already resigned to be held to his promise and never speak of his feelings again.

Jim takes another step forward and lifts his hand to touch Spock’s face almost reverently, trembling fingers sliding from his temple to his jaw.

“How can you not know this?” Jim whispers, meaning to look into Spock’s eyes, but finding himself staring at his lips. “Spock, how could you not have known?”

The kiss, when it comes, is unbearably gentle, and Jim is only half believing this is happening. But then determined arms slide around his waist, tugging him flush against Spock, and Jim is gone, holding on with frantic desperation, kissing Spock within an inch of his life.

Spock loves him, and Jim’s mind dives into overload, trying to assimilate this, and he doesn’t care, because if he died right now, he’d go happy. Not that he wants to, of course – not when they’re on the verge of something so beautiful, so wanted.

They’re a little awkward with each other, and Jim revels in it, because it’s so much better than any perfected fantasy. If Spock’s hands are crushing him a little, they could not be tight enough; if his kisses are a little too impatient, they could not be eager enough; if Spock is a little too much _right there_ , Jim will never get enough of him.

They part for air, finally, and, if anything, Jim pulls Spock even closer.

“If you so much as _think_ of leaving now, I’ll kill you,” he murmurs, lips pressed against the pointed ear. “Don’t know who you pissed off, but you’re pretty much sentenced to me now. For life.”

“This is... a bit sudden for you, is it not?” Spock asks quietly, and Jim hates the note of uncertainty in his tone.

He pulls back slightly and looks into Spock’s eyes. “No,” he says. “It’s not, Spock. You just – haven’t been paying attention.”

Spock gazes at him for an unbearably long moment, gauging Jim’s words against what he senses from him. Finally, not a moment too soon, Spock leans in and brushes Jim’s lips again with his own.

“I am now,” he says softly, eyes sliding closed trustingly.

“Yes.” Jim grins against his mouth. “Now, you are.”

\--

When Lieutenant Somm stops by Jim’s quarters in the morning to request that the captain performs a ceremony for him and his fiancée, Jim beams at him brightly, as if it’s the best piece of news he has ever received.

And if the captain falters a couple of times during the proceedings, losing the pattern of his speech because he’s too busy staring at his first officer, who’s standing quietly at the back of the room, no one feels compelled to bring it up.

\--


	5. Desert Walk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas break. Chris and Spock don't exactly celebrate, but they are together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for syredronning's prompt: _Pike-Spock -_ not _celebrating Christmas :)_  
>  Warnings: E-rated, light D/s

\--

It’s ironic, Chris thinks, that you have to be alone to stop feeling lonely. In the crowded halls of Starfleet Headquarters or in Academy corridors, with people swinging by constantly in colloidal motion, he often feels irrelevant and alone, like a grain of sand, with no real connection to either the familiar or the strangers.

Here, in the desert, with not a soul in dozens of square miles, the senses of calm and distinction are omnipresent. Others might cow before the blunt magnificence of nature, but Chris has always felt important here – not in the narcissist kind of way, but rather as the sole observer: a being with eyesight and a voice and a stream of thoughts that can finally be heard.

Chris walks into the kitchen, smiling softly and thinking that he’s doing what he promised he’d never do – turn into a boring, rambling man in his old age, trying to pass as a philosopher. Not that he’s that old biologically; barely crossed the equator there. But there have been three wars and a lifetime of service, night watches lasting for years, stale coffee, cheap cognac, no family, and... Spock.

There’s Spock.

Chris sets a kettle over a spirit stove and looks out the window.

Spock has left early, before Chris woke, and his shoes are still by the door, which means he’s gone wandering into the desert and will come back with slightly puffed feet, hurting physically but otherwise feeling better. He always does this whenever they come here. Chris doesn’t know if Spock is trying to reconnect with a home he’d forever lost, or if this is some kind of penance – for what crimes, Chris will never find out.

He doesn’t ask.

The kettle whistles and Chris picks it up. He brews tea in an old, slightly chapped teapot that had belonged to the previous owners of the ranch. He misses coffee, but he can live without it for three weeks.

He takes his cup out into the terrace, settling down in an old wooden chaise lounge. Soon, the sun will become too bright to be sitting here, staring into the blazing cloth of the desert, but it’s mid-morning now, so it’s okay. Chris closes his eyes and drifts with the gentle riptide of wind and the delicate scent of hibiscus.

He opens his eyes a moment or a century later to find Spock kneeling beside him, hands folded neatly over Chris’s lap, Spock’s chin resting on them as he gazes up wonderingly, as if Chris is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

Chris reaches to run his fingers through the rich, heavy silk of Spock’s hair, and Spock turns his head slightly to meet the touch, his eyes smoky and dark in the blazing sunlight.

Chris doesn’t move when Spock tugs down his linen pants carefully, as if for the very first time. He doesn’t make a sound when Spock takes him – half-hard – into his mouth, curls his tongue around the head, and sucks, gentle and persistent. Chris lets his head fall further back as Spock takes more of him in, but when he reaches his limit, Chris tightens his grip on the back of Spock’s neck, holding him in place.

Spock sucks in a desperate breath through his nose, but stays perfectly still, lips wrapped tightly around Chris’s cock, as Chris rocks steadily up and down – a sweet, lazy, long-driven drag. He could go on forever like this – some days he would ride it out for as long as possible – but it’s getting too hot, and Chris doesn’t like the feeling of sweat streaming down his spine.

He presses Spock just a little further down, and Spock chokes once, twice, looking up at Chris imploringly for a split second, and that’s all it takes. Chris’s hand is unyielding through it, holding Spock firmly as Chris watches him swallow, his whole body tense with the effort.

Chris’s grip turns into a caress again as Spock licks him clean, eyes hidden beneath two dark half-circles, pointed tongue quick and efficient. Chris pulls him up then, slotting their mouths together. He likes kissing Spock like this, when he’s still breathless, still trying to regain control, adrenaline screwing with his coordination as his sense of self struggles to return.

Chris breaks the kiss at last, and Spock reaches after him instinctively – already mourning the loss, as if Chris pulling away is killing something in him.

This is why Chris has been spoiled for any other lover since the moment he met Spock. This is why he will never want anyone else.

“I’m gonna hit the shower,” Chris says softly, stroking Spock’s face gently with his fingers. “There’s tea in the kitchen if you want it.”

“Thank you,” Spock murmurs, pressing his forehead against Chris’s for a moment, before rising fluidly and walking into the house.

Three weeks, Chris thinks. God knows when they’ll have another window. For now, though, they have three weeks that neither the admiralty nor Jim Kirk will dare to interrupt.

Chris hauls himself up to his feet and follows Spock inside.


	6. Eggnog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirk rents a cottage for the bridge crew for Christmas. Spock is late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [zjofierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose)'s prompt: _ok- k/s, umm, christmas eve, and... eggnog. or something. :D_

\--

At first, the idea of renting a cottage for the bridge crew and selected others for Christmas seems lame at best. Not that Jim can’t get behind it, but he doesn’t think most of his team would want to spend even more time together than they absolutely have to. They like each other and they work well together, but spending the rare shore leave seeing all the familiar faces seems a bit over the top. Jim is surprised, pleasantly so, when they all accost him at one point or other, telling him that, should he go through with it, it’ll be their first choice.

Now that the party’s over, and everyone has crawled up to their rooms for what’s left of the night, Jim can’t help but grin, tired and happy. They’re more than coworkers: they’re family. Probably the most insane one ever, but still.

He wanders into the now-quiet living room to check on the fireplace. It wouldn’t do to accidentally set the house on fire while everyone is too buzzed to move. Someone has put a new log in, and the fire licks at it now, deceivingly gentle flames sizzling softly. Surprised, Jim looks around to see Spock curled up on the sofa, a quilt thrown over his knees and a cup of eggnog in his hands.

“Hey,” Jim breathes out, smiling at the sight. “You made it. I thought you said not till tomorrow morning?”

Spock shifts slightly, staring into the fire. “I rescheduled the last meeting. I wished to be here.”

Jim’s heart clenches at the inherent vulnerability of Spock’s quiet tone, as if he isn’t entirely sure of his welcome. Spock knows better, has to by now, but gatherings like this have always been outside his comfort zone. Shaking his head slightly, Jim comes to sit next to him.

“We missed you,” Jim says softly, placing his hands on Spock’s shoulders and tugging gently. Spock resists instinctively for a moment, then relents, as if remembering that he’s allowed, and lets Jim pull him close.

“Hi,” Jim murmurs, nuzzling around the curve of Spock’s ear before placing a gentle kiss on his temple. “So glad you’re here.”

Spock lets out a low, happy grunt, relaxing further into Jim’s arms. “This eggnog contains no alcohol.”

Jim grins, his fingers rubbing circles on Spock’s back and arm absently. “You hate the taste, so I didn’t let them spike it. I never lost hope you’d actually come.”

“Illogical.” Spock sighs. “But thank you.”

Jim reaches to take the glass from Spock’s hands and sets it carefully on the coffee table. “C’mere.” He reclines on the sofa, tugging at Spock’s shirt.

“Jim.” Spock tenses and doesn’t budge. “We might fall asleep.” It’s an obvious testament to how tired he is that he openly says ‘we’ instead of taking a shot at Jim’s less advanced human stamina.

Jim shrugs. “That’s the idea.”

Spock glances over his shoulder toward the stairs. “Someone might see.”

Jim snorts quietly. “Spock, they know.”

Spock blinks, looking alarmed for a moment. “You told them?”

“No.” Jim shakes his head. “But I spent half the night explaining why you weren’t here, and I stopped telling them off for calling you my boyfriend after the fifteenth time or something. It just got old.” He chews on his lip thoughtfully. “Plus, no one tried to corner me under the mistletoe, not even Tasha, so it’s a pretty safe bet that they know.”

Spock eyes him for a moment with a pensive expression Jim can’t quite read. He shifts awkwardly, stretching his legs. “Are you mad?”

Spock breaks his still posture as if startled. “No, Jim, of course not. It is merely – unexpected.”

“Thought we had them fooled, huh?” Jim asks with a wry smirk. “Apparently, Mr. Spock, we suck at keeping secrets.”

“Apparently,” Spock agrees, dry humor coloring his voice.

“Hey, at least it saves us the humiliation of a big announcement.”

“Apparently.”

“You do know other words, right?” Spock opens his mouth, and Jim flashes a palm up. “Don’t.”

Spock gives him an eyebrow that usually means he’s laughing at Jim and moves to lie down next to him. They spend a couple of minutes searching for a more comfortable position, finally settling down with Spock half-draped around Jim, legs tangled, arms around each other.

Jim pulls the quilt over them as best he can, his motions heavy with pleasant fatigue. Spock is a warm, reassuring weight at his side, and the only sound in the room is the enigmatic whisper of the fire and the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Jim blinks stubbornly, fighting off sleep, trying to stretch the blissful moment for as long as possible.

“Merry Christmas,” Spock mumbles suddenly through the veil of drowsiness, burying his face in Jim’s shoulder.

Jim knows the exact moment when Spock’s consciousness leaves him. It’s only then that he presses his lips to Spock’s forehead and whispers softly, “Love you, too.”


	7. Caught in the Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pike and Spock spend their vacation in a small cabin with a cozy fireplace and loads of snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for noxie3's prompt: _Spock/Pike; vacation in the snow / or opening presents_

\--

The morning is glorious, with snow-covered mountain peaks standing out against the polarized indigo of the sky and the ice caps gleaming the delicate green of pale emeralds under the gentle touch of sunlight. Never really one for poetic hyperboles, Chris looks around with astonishment that won’t fade, barely able to believe that this kind of beauty exists. It’s literally breathtaking, and he stands there for countless moments, looking on, even as the sheer brightness hurts his bare eyes and the frosty air worries his lungs. It’s too precious to look away.

Finally, as one of the logs tries to slip from the armful Chris is holding, he remembers the reason for his early morning excursion. He blinks, coming out of a reverie, grins at himself and walks back toward the small cabin, nestled in the mountain’s side. It has an autonomic heat generator of course, but it also has a fireplace, and Chris thinks it’s a travesty not to use it.

The cabin really is small, with design-hinted zones inside rather than rooms. Chris steps over the threshold, closing the door behind him, and glances first at the fireplace to make certain there are still enough embers to restart the fire. Then he looks over, past the ‘living room’ space back toward the sleeping alcove. Judging by the ever-mounting pile of puffy white blankets towering over the bed like an ice cream top, Spock is still sleeping. Chris grins, shaking his head a little, and leans over to deposit the wood on the floor.

He takes his boots and coat off and kneels beside the fireplace, his hands working deftly on rekindling the flame. Current levels of civilization have almost completely extinguished the need for live flames, and Chris feels some kind of vindictive pleasure in resolving to this once-basic, primitive activity. In a world where most gender stereotypes are being frowned upon and swept away, it’s unexpectedly good to feel like a man for once, exercising some completely redundant yet fulfilling skill.

Chris watches the renewed fire with satisfaction for a few moments, then remembers the unforgiving beauty of the world outside, and goes to wake Spock. It’s well past nine, anyway.

It’s been quite a while since they got together, but Spock is still as full of surprises as when they only just met. For example, Spock is always the first one to show up for the watch exchange, usually awake two of three hours before he’s scheduled to start his shift, running errands, checking on the labs, and performing numerous self-imposed tasks. He’s equally well known for working late, and sometimes he gives the impression that he doesn’t require any sleep at all.

It was a huge surprise, therefore, to discover that, left to his own devices with no impending duty hanging over him, Spock likes to sleep in late, _really_ late, and could happily spend the morning in bed, dozing or simply lying quietly, warm and relaxed. It’s his personal brand of rebellion against all the long years of strict discipline where moments of leisure were nothing short of a crime. Spock isn’t above acting like a spoiled child when Chris tries to drag him out of bed, and he usually wins, because Chris is too delighted by the image, and by the knowledge that Spock trusts him enough to be like this with him, fearing neither scolding nor rejection.

Chris smiles, drawing closer to the bed, and tugs at the blanket lightly, exposing Spock’s face. He can tell at once that Spock isn’t really sleeping, and his smile grows wider.

“Are you planning on staying here all day?”

Spock frowns, not opening his eyes, mumbles something, and tries to dive back under the covers. Chris pulls it back down. “What was that? I didn’t catch it.”

“I said, go away,” Spock replies more articulately, before rolling over onto his stomach and out of Chris’s reach.

Chris snorts. “That’s quite a way to speak to your commanding officer. What if I order you out of bed?”

“I’ll resign my commission.”

“You’ll be court-martialed first.”

“Very well.”

“Spock.” Chris sighs in fond exasperation. “There’s a world outside, and it’s beautiful. You should see it.”

“The statistical likelihood of it disappearing in the next two hours is extremely low. Therefore, it can wait.”

Chris rolls his eyes. “Spock, stop being an infant and get up.”

“Make me.”

Chris stares at him for a moment before laughing helplessly. “How are you even real?”

Spock lifts himself up on his elbows, looking back at Chris over his shoulder. The blanket slides further down, exposing the smooth, elegant curve of his back, and Chris swallows. Spock’s eyes glint with a mixture of annoyance and mischief.

“Christopher, I am cold,” he says in a clear, measured tone. “Either release my blanket or join me, but do one of the other _now_.”

With that, Spock pulls himself a little further up on the bed, lying down and shifting under the covers in a way that makes the nature of his invitation blatantly obvious. Chris stares, and yes, he can definitely get behind that. The mountains are spectacular, no denying that, but they can’t compete with this insolent, beautiful, sensuous creature, who is all the more attractive for being such an unbearable brat with Chris – _only_ with Chris.

Chris thinks about last night, and about how maybe Spock really does have a reason for not wanting to move just yet, and how he’s probably still loose and slick and welcoming, and Chris knows that this battle has been lost before it started. He undresses quickly and slides under the covers, pressing a long, open-mouthed kiss to the nape of Spock’s neck.

Spock sighs contentedly, relaxing under him. “You smell like fire.”

Chris laughs, because that’s just so fitting. Spock owns him with every word he says, with every little gesture he makes, with the way he opens up for Chris right now, his heart fluttering in his side, lips parting to suck in a greedy gulp of air. He owns Chris completely, and if he ever decides to cash this check, Chris will be broke, wrecked, and demolished, with not even a penny of pride sticking to his name.

It’s a scary, utterly terrifying thought that steals consideration from his motions and makes him lose control, and Spock lets him, welcomes him, begs him not to resist – as though Chris could. Spock is oil to his flame, and it’s self-destructive for the both of them, but Chris couldn’t stop if his life depended on it, and Spock would probably kill him if he did.

Spock turns around in his arms afterward and presses his forehead against Chris’s, the sensitive fingers ghosting over his face, and Chris can feel him, the residual physical pleasure giving way to something deeper, something inestimably more powerful, and Spock’s breath hitches as he tries to reign it in. Chris kisses him softly, rocks him through it, but he also watches, unable to tear his eyes away, watches as Spock struggles and, inevitably, loses, and clings to Chris, surrendering at last.

“I love you,” Chris whispers. “You are my life, Spock.”

At any other time, the words would have earned him a sassy remark or a teasing eyebrow, but not now – oh no, not now. Now, Spock scoots a little closer, begging Chris wordlessly to hold him, and sighs quietly against his chest, as if he stepped upon a mystery he could never hope to solve.

They fall asleep like this, and when Chris wakes up a couple of hours later, there’s coffee and breakfast, and toast done exactly the way Chris likes, with a slip of butter melting in the middle, the tantalizing smell of fresh honey making Chris’s mouth water, and – and he should really marry Spock so that he could sue the universe if anything goes wrong.

Spock glances up at him from where he’s kneeling beside the fireplace. He’s obviously made several trips outside, as the pile of wood is mounting ever higher and the cabin is soaking in delicious warmth. Chris grins at him, and Spock smiles back shyly. He looks hesitant as he comes over.

“It has started snowing,” Spock says, shifting guiltily, and Chris looks out the window only to be unable to see past a thick white curtain. “It is... more of a blizzard.”

“It’s okay,” Chris says, and it really is. He smiles. “I don’t mind staying in for a bit.”

Spock nods, eyes downcast still. Chris rolls his eyes, unobserved, and pushes his half-empty mug at Spock. “Here. Bring me more coffee and stop beating yourself over this. It’s just a little weather, Spock. We’ll be fine.”

Spock looks up at him at that, and Chris holds his eyes and gives him a tight little nod, meaning something else entirely. “We’ll be fine.”

Spock’s lips curl up slightly as he wraps his hands around the mug, tension bleeding out of him. Chris grins, he can’t help it, and leans up to kiss Spock’s nose, smacking his butt for good measure to send him off. Spock makes that face when he sort of scowls like an insulted princess without actually moving his facial muscles, and Chris laughs, falling back onto the pillows and thinking that yes – they will be all right.

Spock brings him back herbal tea in retaliation, but, Chris thinks, that’s all right, too.


	8. One-Two-Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirk is supposed to learn how to dance. Spock shares tips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my dear, dear longtime beta secret_chord25's prompt: _K/S. Something with ballroom dance?_

\--

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen, let’s do this one more time,” Uhura calls loudly from her position in front of the impromptu class. “No staring at your feet, no counting out loud, and no slouching, _Mister_ Kirk! Don’t think I can’t see you back there. Aaaaand go!”

A charming waltz melody fills the room where twenty _Enterprise_ officers were trying to get their dancing skills up to par for the upcoming Winter Ball at Starfleet headquarters. Admiral Komack had sent a rather thunderous communiqué, informing the senior officers that a) no one is excused and b) nothing short of perfect grace and etiquette will be expected from each and every one of them. Half the diplomatic corps is said to be in attendance, and the admiral has made it quite clear that he takes appearances very seriously.

Jim curses under his breath, trying to pull himself upright as best he can, while keeping his arms open for an imaginary partner. He has never felt more stupid in his life, mostly because he can’t get the hang of it. He’s mad at Komack for pushing this and mad at himself for his incredible clumsiness. He glances over to where Scotty trips over his feet two rows up front, and winces sympathetically.

How are people supposed to keep their balance in this ridiculous position anyway?

“Remember: boys, it’s your job to maintain the frame; girls, it’s your job to maintain contact with your partner!”

Jim grits his teeth, dreading the moment when Uhura will split them into pairs. As if this hasn’t been humiliating enough already. Then he remembers that he’ll have to do this in front of about three thousand people and numerous live vids, and wants to die.

_And one-two-three, one-two three, turn, turn (no way he’s doing that one with anyone else), cross, one-two-three, one-turn on two-three…_ one, _dammit!_

“Chin up, Kirk, there’s no way this floor is that exciting!”

Jim jerks his head up abruptly, ready to tell Uhura exactly how exciting he finds her commands, and his furious gaze smashes to pieces colliding with Spock’s solid form hovering in the doorway. The first officer is watching Jim with seemingly impassive, but somewhat bemused expression on his face.

Jim blushes scarlet and immediately stutters, coming to a halt and dropping his arms. _Jesus_ , do they hurt.

“Hey, Spock,” Jim says breathlessly, a helpless grin spreading across his lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard the music,” Spock explains pleasantly, “and decided to investigate. I admit, this is more entertaining than I assumed it would be.”

“Yeah, well.” Jim rubs the back of his neck self-consciously and glances briefly at the waltzing figures of his comrades in misery. “You’re lucky no one can force _you_ to dance, cultural exceptions and all. This is hell.”

“Indeed, Captain?” Spock lifts an eyebrow. “Most people find dancing quite enjoyable.”

“This isn’t dancing, Spock,” Jim whines, feeling no remorse about it. “It’s freaking _ballroom_ dancing. It’s horrible.”

Before Spock can answer, Uhura materializes at Jim’s elbow. “Okay, less talking, more dancing,” she orders sternly. “Show me what you got.”

He smirks at her. “All you had to do was ask, baby. _Ow!_ ” he yelps as she smacks him on the head. “You _soulless harpy!_ ”

“ _Position_ , Kirk,” Uhura snaps. “And you’ll be paying me for that one later. I accept jewelry, perfume of my choosing, or top shelf liquor.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Jim asks in mild alarm, even as he offers her a hand and lifts his arms back to form the frame. He glances at Spock sideways, not daring to move his head. “She’s kidding?”

“She is not,” Spock informs him calmly. “Apologies to Nyota have always been expensive.”

“Great, now you’re both screwing with me,” Jim mutters, straightening his spine and angling his hips. “This is unbearable.”

Uhura watches him critically, but mysteriously says nothing. Jim opens his mouth to ask how bad he’s doing when suddenly he feels firm, confident hands on his back.

“Spock,” he gasps. “What are you—”

Spock’s fingers push lightly at the middle of Jim’s back and between Jim’s shoulder blades, urging him to stretch his spine up even more. That accomplished, Spock’s palms immediately land on Jim’s shoulders, pressing them down and back. Jim swallows reflexively, but submits to Spock’s mute commands without question. He can feel the horrible telltale blush rising up his neck, spreading across his cheeks, but he’s helpless to stop it.

He bites his lip, as Spock takes him by the hips, angling them forward and stopping them when Jim pushes too far. Spock’s touch burns through the layers of fabric, and Jim wants to yell at him to cut it the fuck out, but his voice goes enigmatically missing. Finally, Spock’s fingers brush along Jim’s cheek before taking hold of his chin and tilting it up and slightly to the right.

“You must align your body in a straight line from your tailbone to your nape,” Spock says softly in his ear, his hands touching the named body parts for emphasis. “ _This_ is position.”

“Perfect, Spock.” Uhura is grinning at him, throwing a knowing look at Jim. “Should have hired you as an assistant.”

“That would not have been viable,” Spock replies, and Jim swallows back another curse, because Spock is close, so damn close that his breath tickles the skin at the back of Jim’s neck. And he still keeps a hand at the center of Jim’s spine.

“Okay,” Uhura says cheerfully. “Ready? Two, three, gooohone!”

They move, the three of them, Jim and Uhura locked in position, Spock hovering behind Jim, his palm hot against Jim’s back.

“Good,” Uhura mutters. “Good, good, _good_ , Jim. Eyes on me – and _one_. Turn, turn, three – and _one_ – perfect! Keep going, keep going.”

Jim feels dizzy with his sudden success, grinning, because dammit, he’s _moving_ in time with the music and it feels wonderful. The space between his shoulder blades emitting heat and keeping him upright, it takes him a while to catch up on the fact that Spock is no longer touching him, the phantom sensation guiding him. Which is of course exactly when Jim stumbles.

Uhura stops, her hand sliding out of his, but to Jim’s surprise, she pats him on the shoulder with the other.

“That was definitely progress, Jim,” she tells him smiling, and adds quietly, “Think of Spock when you’re dancing, and you’ll be fine.”

Jim blushes. “You – I don’t—”

She chuckles. “Hey, whatever works.” Her expression clouds for a moment. “His mother taught him to dance, so tread carefully.”

Jim nods, turning to go, but Uhura catches his sleeve. “Jim.” He looks at her. “He never danced with _me_.”

Jim stares at her, trying desperately to decipher what she means by that, but he only has one explanation, and it’s both unbelievable and incredibly wanted.

“Thanks,” he whispers.

She only nods tightly in return.

Spock is still standing by the doorway, absently watching other dancers. Jim grins at him, heart beating rapidly in his chest as he comes to stand before Spock.

“So,” Jim starts. “Theoretically, if I wanted to say thank you for the dancing tips, would I have to resort to jewelry, perfume, or top-shelf liquor?”

Spock arches an eyebrow. “Are those my only choices?”

“Well, no,” Jim admits cheerfully. “I could also do this.”

Quickly, before he has the chance to chicken out, he leans up and presses a swift, warm kiss to Spock’s cheek.

Spock freezes for a moment, blinking in startled confusion, and then he looks at his feet and clears his throat awkwardly.

“That would be... acceptable.”

“Great.” Jim’s grin is threatening to split his face. “Because I’m very, _very_ grateful.”

Spock’s eyes snap up to meet his, and Jim feels the universe shift on its axis. Then Spock’s hand is in his, and they are leaving, and Jim thinks, with a final glance at the whirling couples, that these dancing lessons are without a doubt the best idea Starfleet has ever come up with.

He has a feeling that Spock agrees with him.

\--


End file.
